


When, what to my wondering eyes should appear

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Candy, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Conversations, F/M, Gift Giving, Holidays, Oranges, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Making a home in the midst of War. Making magic.





	When, what to my wondering eyes should appear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts), [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



It seemed he searched the whole of Mansion House to find her, every corner and alcove, the overlarge closet she used to see the camp followers, the front parlor where she received esteemed visitors. He’d even opened the door to the box-room she used for her bedroom and peered within, disbelieving he, a gentleman born and raised whatever anyone might say, could truly be intruding on a lady’s private boudoir without her invitation. She was not there but it could be no one’s room but hers, so tidy and fresh, a stack of mathematics texts carefully arranged on the night-table, a nosegay of leaves and late chrysanthemums in a jam jar. A worn pair of slippers that had never pretended to be fine Morocco leather peeped from the shadows near her bed, the bed he did not dare imagine.

He found Mary in the kitchen, sitting at the scrubbed table where Bullen had once held a black market for the biscuit and beef liver and marrow jelly sent in baskets from _Mother in Connecticut_ or _your devoted wife in Illinois_. The cabinets were tightly latched, the sink emptied of all but one rinsed mug, gleaming a little in the light from the lantern. The table-top was strewn with the poorest of baubles, paltry sacks of horehound and broken crackers from the general store, the most underwhelming mélange of buttons, laces, scraps of cloth she’d made into items he couldn’t begin to identify. And at one end, a seemingly infinite pile of stockings. All clean, however grey they seemed, and she kept reaching for one after another, to fill each with something for a man to discover in the morning.

“You must miss the oranges for every toe,” he said, not bothering to announce himself or make some polite introduction. They were beyond that, if they’d ever been there; he recalled how she’d thrown herself upon him that first day, the softness of her panting breath. The softness of her skin where it grazed his.

“Shall I make a confession, then, Jed?” she replied, looking up at him. Did she even intend to sound such a coquette? That dimple in her cheek, the flutter of those lashes…

“Could I stop you?” 

She laughed, a pretty sound he barely recognized. 

“I shouldn’t think so. The truth is, the truth--” 

“Is it so hard to tell the truth, Mary?” he couldn’t resist saying. Asking. Wondering. It had been for him—to tell others, difficult, to tell himself, impossible, until it was all he could do. 

“I think you don’t want to hear me answer, you interrupt so!” she exclaimed. She was incapable of anything but the truth it seemed and he smiled at her to hear her say it. To be understood by her, again, as he never had been before—he could not tire of it. 

“The truth is, Jed, that I don’t care for oranges. Not one bit,” she announced, almost proudly. She was pleased with herself at surprising him and making him pause.

“You don’t like them?” he repeated.

“The scent of the peel is pleasant, but the taste! Oh, they’re so tart, sour really. I could never fancy them,” she explained, pursing up her lips in memory, making herself suddenly, infinitely desirable; all he wanted to do was to lean over and kiss her, softly first, then deeply. Finding out how sweet she was, how delicious, the shape of her mouth when she was hungry for him and would not disguise it. How her eagerness would look when it was satisfied, when he murmured _Molly_ and swallowed her gasp, how much more dear she could be to him. Dearest.

“Perhaps you never had one that was ripe,” he said. She raised an eyebrow at that, her hands still busy with whatever she was about, some sort of sorting or assembling, those slender hands that had held his when there was nothing else to hold on to. He heard what he said, how it might sound and did something he hadn’t in years, felt the warmth of a blush on his cheeks.

“Perhaps not. I shan’t have a chance this Christmas, anyway,” she said.

“What did you like to find in your stocking? What did you hope for?” he asked, unable to stop himself. She had more restraint and paused, looking away before she looked back at him, without any artifice in her dark eyes.

“Marchpane,” she said. And smiled, open and yet with the hint of a secret in the curve of it.

“You like sweets then,” he replied, watching the color come up in her face. He was happy she had said marchpane and not _marzipan_. Her hands were still and she bit her lip, just a little.

“Yes. More than I should admit,” she said. He felt the words he wanted to say, wild, impetuous words that would precede his wild, impetuous actions—his hand reaching out for her arm, her cheek, drawing her towards him, pulling the pins from her braided hair. That chestnut hair falling all around them, the scent of rosewater. He thought of how marchpane would taste if he took a bite and then kissed her, if he licked at her sticky fingers. He shook his head slightly; it wouldn’t do, what he wanted to do. And yet…

“Not more, I think. All of us, we must have some wishes, things that…delight us,” he said softly. How wistful she looked and how tender! “Molly…”

“I—Jed! I…hope the men won’t be too disappointed in what Saint Nicholas brings. That they can be—delighted by these little things,” she said, saving them both again, as she did again and again. She’d done enough. He took her hand where it lay quiet and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles, turned it and slowly kissed her open palm, closing his eyes with the joy of it.

“They will be. They are,” he said. 

He heard the breath she took then and he thought next year, if the War still raged and they found themselves here, there would be an orange in her stocking, delicately crafted of the finest marchpane, the ruddy color painted as if by a tropic sun. He might watch her eat it and see how she enjoyed it. Or he might observe how she tucked it away, to keep for later when she was alone, a most precious gift to be savored. A gift that would not demand gratitude, but which might bring her to his door, to say words he did not allow himself to imagine.

“Merry Christmas, Molly, and thank you for making it so,” he said, holding her hand yet in his.

“Merry Christmas, Jedediah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Good things come in threes, no? This is my 2017-2018 winter holiday entry, to go along with sagiow's and ultrahotpink's festive pieces. My Mary still loves math, if not oranges. The season has worked its magic on this Jed, I think, too-- he's a bit softer and less sarcastic than he often seems on the show.
> 
> The title is from the classic poem "A Visit From St. Nicholas."


End file.
